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Swing
A swing that is bound,
To the branch of the tallest Oak in the yard,
Rope tightly hugging the tree’s crusted bark.
A swing holding on in a storm,
Winds wickedly tempt the give of her string,
Cloud’s tears rotting her wooden bench.
A swing that is withering,
In each roll of thunderous wrath,
Still the swing endures on—
She is the swing that suffers,
Rocking back and fourth,
As life’s elements clash against her.

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